Queenly on the Sidewalk

This is poem about my great-grandmother written on December sixth. On the first of February, she went to heaven.

When we saw you last, my dad said
You should live to be a hundred
And I imprinted your picture on my mind
As you stood queenly on the sidewalk
And watched us drive on,
Your blood surging through my own veins,
Your legacy reaching into me
And out into pictures, words, and characters.
But as this monster now overtakes your mind,
I see you fade,
Your image growing dimmer in my mind,
As pictures, words, and characters grow more defined.
And I would plead to God for mercy,
But what if it is a monster of mercy in your mind,
And you grow dim here, but there you are defined--
In peace with Him, in love with Him,
Free from torments of the mind?

On Turning Eighteen

Being eighteen does feel different. On past birthdays, people have asked, "So, how does it feel to be ___ years old?" But it didn't feel like anything. Being eighteen, however, bears consequences: I can vote, I can get my regular license, and, most significantly, I can work more than eight hours a day. I feel like it's time for me, by the power of God, to forget about myself and focus on others, to see people the way God sees people. I feel that if He has brought me all this way through childhood and kept me from many eminent dangers, He must have a plan and purpose for me. That blows me away. To think that through out the ages and places so many people have died in the womb or while they were but infants or toddlers, and to think that I have been preserved and trained thus far, just blows me away. Why me?

The motto for seventeen was : "We are seventeen; we are invincible." I don't know about this eighteen thing yet.

I've realized today that there are people who really care about me. Sometimes I forget that, but I couldn't today. My friends threw me a party and I was utterly shocked. The best part about it was not that we had fun, though we did, but just that they cared enough to take the time to do that for me. I was, as I said before, shocked. Then I checked facebook tonight and saw that sixteen people had wished me a happy birthday on my wall. I suppose it doesn't take a whole lot of effort to write on someone's wall, but it meant a great deal to me.

Thank you so much, God, for eighteen years! You have done for me inconceivably more than I can comprehend, and yet I am still so far from Your perfect image. Please draw me near to You and use me for "righteous purposes."

Mulatto Child

When your tiny eyelids seperate, they make the way for dark, enchanting worlds,
Like the worlds that I gazed into when I fell in love.
In bundles I robe your cream-colored skin; in bundles I hold you in my white hands.
In you I see us blend, my light and simple life into his dark mystery.

Mighty Love (for 2-5-08)

Do not be afraid, child, of the power in His hands.
Do not run away to be alone,
To sob in the back, trembling out your moments into days.
He gives you moments to gaze on Him; He gives days to praise.
He breaks that He might heal again
And grind your broken heart into Him.
He will make you strong, child; do not be afraid
To walk with a limp or to graze the grave
For his mighty hands reveal His mighty love.
Tonight, in this storm, as the roof pours down on your head,
He will gaurd you with His zealous mighty love.
He will guide you with His hands from the terror crashing in,
Out into the awesome depths and mighty hights of His love.